Reality
by rapid-apathy
Summary: Kaka/Saku Reality isn't all it's cracked up to be. But sometimes it's worth trying again.


Story is mature for sexual content, please do not read if you're underage or bothered by those themes.

Reviews are most welcome!

edit:My formatting was messed a bit (god love you FFnet), I tried to fix it best it would allow. -insert headdesk here- But it seems it won't allow my indentations where I want them in the dialogue, so I apologize.

Thank you for the reviews so far, I really appreciate them!

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

She looks at him. He's leaning against a tree, one leg bent up, familiar book opened in front of him. He's wearing the same thing he always does, blue, green, dashes of orange, wrappings of white. His face, disinterested, detached. Three years ago or right now, in this instant, the same. It's stupid, indulgent and she doesn't understand why, but she does it anyway.

She asks him again, for the third time this week and for the third month in a row, Would you like to give it a try?

Try what? his eyes not moving from the pages.

Reality.

Already tried it.

How about one more go?

For how long?

I don't know, she says. An hour, a night, a day. Maybe longer or shorter. Maybe...forever.

A silence passes between. He sighs and slowly closes the familiar book, places it in his vest.

_Forever_? Even _you_ can't be that dramatic.

I can, and you never know.

I think I know better than you, Sakura-_chan_.

Is it that you don't want to find out that you could possibly _wrong_ about anything_, Jiji?_

He glares at her.

A night? His eye meet hers.

Yes.

He agrees, finally. Reluctantly. Experience tells him what will happen, but it seems rather quiet on this particular day, not screaming loud enough over his apathy and hard to extinguish desire for female company.

He knows all too well how he's completely destroying his entire relationship with her as he knows it.

But for some reason, at this moment, he can't seem to care any longer.

He meets her where she specified. A small restaurant trying to be a chic café. It's a pretentious place and greets him with a forced welcome. He thinks it will last a few more months before something else moves in. Forgettable, passing. He sees her sitting at a table waiting for him. He's late. She's wearing a white blouse, it buttons up the front allowing a slight view of her chest, the top of her breasts. A cute black skirt. He thinks of how adorable she looks. He is still wearing his usual clothing. Blue, green, dashes of orange, wrappings of white.

They talk, it is strained, awkward at first, but begins to relax. She asks him about his past, he changes the subject by asking about her hair. It's such an unusual color, he tells her. She looks at him. He stares back. Apologizes, continues. I mean, it is unique. Different. I like it, he says. I always have.

She smiles at him. They talk, about her hair some more, she tells him it's a common color in her family for girls, her grandmother and aunt have it too. They talk about their latest missions, their successes, and their failures. Sasuke comes up and she falls silent. She smiles faintly and focuses her attention on her glass of water. She doesn't drink it, just moves the straw around in it, as if preparing it for something. Conversation dissolves into a series of short questions and answers, meaningless, filling the space.

A twinge of irritation flutters in his chest at her response to the mention of Sasuke. It's always about Sasuke. Even though he is gone, by choice, he has more power than anyone there, over her, over Naruto. Everyone's feeling of inadequacy, of failure, of despair. It's always him. She still loves him. Still. Naruto loves her, but loves Sasuke more. Neither one can let go of the Uchiha, and both are lost in their unrequited love, one completely blind to the other. It is sad and draining.

He misses Sasuke. But he knows who Sasuke is. And why this desperate hold on what should be, instead of accepting what is, is keeping life at a standstill. Her life. Naruto's life. Perhaps even Kakashi's. But then again, he put his life on hold a long time ago.

He pays, and they leave finally. They walk slowly, unsure on where to go next. There is an omnipresent awkwardness that won't lift, neither one is quite sure what to say. He feels like a teenager, like he's never been on a date with a girl before. It's ridiculous. He's not quite sure if she's even been on a date. He assumes she has been. Thinks she has been. She had to have been. He can't go through with this night if he knows she hasn't.

He invites her over to his flat.

She accepts with a faint smile and nod of the head.

She looks around. It's small, a loft, sparsely furnished, dirty, a typical bachelor dwelling. He doesn't spend much time here. It's for sleeping, eating and showering occasionally. No where anyone would call home. She looks at the few photos and framed certificates on the wall, asks him who is who and where he got that. He tells her he doesn't remember, that's why he keeps things in frames. She laughs. She sees the faces of countless people, and a sinking in her stomach materializes as the realization that all these people, smiling and posing with their Sharingan eyed friend, are probably dead.

He is sitting on his bed, which doubles as a couch and only place to sit other than the floor of questionable cleanliness. It's a stripped mattress with a thin blue comforter on top of it. She sits next to him. She is nervous. Not afraid, but not sure. Of herself, of him, following through with this which seemed so easy in theory before. She subconsciously tucks her pink hair behind her ear, twists it through her fingers. She starts talking about Naruto, Sasuke how she misses them, an endless stream of nervous chatter she can't seem to hold back at the moment. She talks about her training as a medical nin, how it is rewarding but extremely demanding of her time and a strain on her life outside of working.

How she is lonely. How she thinks about him sometimes. She laughs nervously, says she's not sure why.

He watches her lips move, he's not listening to her. He wonders what she is doing here, what he is doing, what she will feel like, what she will sound like, taste like, smell like.

How this is wrong, he will probably lose his position, she will end up hating him, they won't be friends anymore.

Because of _this_, this mutual loneliness, desire, stupidity.

Reality.

His hand touches her knee. She continues to talk, although she finds it harder now. Her stomach knots; excitement, nausea, lust materialize in one languid move of his fingers, so gentle, moving up her leg. Slowly, he moves his hand under her cute black skirt, against still unknown color panties. He likes the way she feels, she's soft, smooth, warm. She's responsive, her inane chatter has ceased, her eyes are heavy, fluttering closed. Her breath comes in erratic pants with every motion of his hand and fingers over cotton. Masked lips ghost over her neck. Unrushed fingers remove concealing buttons, clasps and lace.

She's still too young. Even as time passes, she never catches up. She's still a child. She doesn't realize it. He tries to forget it.

He slides a finger under the top of his mask, he's going to remove it. She puts her hand on his wrist to stop him. Let me do it, she tells him. She wants to do it. Slowly she pulls it down, with both hands, revealing him to her. She's excited, anxious; somehow this is causing her more anxiety than his hand on her. When it's down, bunched around his neck, she sees him. It's there, out in front of her, plain to see, his face is. She finds herself surprised, disturbed at how he doesn't look like her mind thought he would, the made up face she had in her thoughts, created after so many years of seeing nothing but a masked shape of a face. He's attractive, not breathtakingly beautiful, but masculine, average. His jaw is sharp and angular, it's covered in an early shaven skin, just the beginnings of his beard starting to surface. The lines around his mouth are faint, but there, showing his age, his age beyond his own. His smile is faint, gentle and when he does, it's one image now, there is nothing breaking it up, it flows, his face, it's one. The lines around his eyes are more prevalent now, everything melds together, the mystery is gone, vanished. She is suddenly sad, and she doesn't understand why.

He asks her what's wrong, he notices the sudden shift in her mood, her posture. She's uncomfortable now, stiff, distant. She tells him it's nothing, not to worry about it, she just doesn't feel well. Maybe it was something she ate. Does my face displease you that much? he asks her, in a veiled joke. No, no, it's not that, it's just, I can't explain it, she says. It's too much. Her voice is soft, faded, melancholy. Can, can you put it back on? She asks him, cautiously, quietly. She thinks she's offended him, she is mad at herself for her reaction. Doesn't understand it, it's just a face, she tells herself. He slides it back on, covering his face again, he is him again to her now, and she realizes that his true face isn't him, he's a stranger unmasked, not who she wants or thinks about. Or perhaps he's too real to her revealed, exposed. It's too intimate. Too soon. Too real. Too something. She doesn't know. He tells her it's alright. It's alright. Don't worry. I didn't mean to upset you. He strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. Runs his fingers through soft pink hair.

Do you want to leave?

No.

She lays down along side him. Looks up at the masked face. She still wants him, desires him. Masked. Incomplete.

There's an understanding. She doesn't need to say more, he knows. He finds that he is somehow more comfortable with it on. It keeps her away, keeps her out. He leaves it up, he stays himself. He removes his jacket, Touches masked lips to hers. Not once does he fully kiss her lips, taste her flesh. His hands do what his mouth cannot, and she wonders if she is actually lucky in this sense; his hands, they're perfect, everywhere, overwhelming, intense. She never knew a man's hands could be so perfect, so knowledgeable. They seem to know exactly what to do, knowing her more intimately than she knows herself. They bring her there, _he_ brings her there.

He leads them entirely, he is unsure of her experience, he doesn't want to know. How low could one be deflowering a vulnerable young student? He thinks before quieting that untimely censor in his mind. If he doesn't know, then it doesn't matter. She wanted this after all, she wanted him. Not the other way around.

His gentle touch becomes more aggressive, more dominating. His frustration, his doubt. His lust. A clenched fist takes hold of her hair, her head drawn back, a favorable sound to his ears escapes her lips. A slight of pain, of surprise of excitement. He likes it. He wants more. Perhaps she will beg for him. Just the thought is almost too much. He whispers to her as he moves in deliberate forceful thrusts with his words. It embarrasses her, excites her. He can feel it. Smell it. Makes her even more submissive, more flushed with need. It moves him quicker, harsher, almost cruel in his movements, in his hold on her hips, his motions fueled by the tortuous, wonderful sounds spilling from her lips. Through a fog of lust he wonders why he never did this before, how he wants to do it _again_. He'll take her from behind, or have her on top. He'll devour her until she begs him to stop, force her to her knees and make her taste her own essence on him. His blood rushes like acid through his veins as he holds back, his mind wanting to desperately draw this out since this will probably be the only time he sees her this way, feels her this way.

In a cacophony of harsh breaths, and slick flesh a word escapes her lips that brings him out of hazed fantasy and slams him forward; it is desperate and needing, she says it on a breath, and he is undone.

_Sensei_.

It is positively profane. It's sinfully delightful in every way he thought it might be, but inside of her, at that moment, it blows away any doubt or expectation.

It is the most deplorable and divine moment he has ever been called by that title.

She looks over and sees him sitting on his windowsill, gazing out. He's in a dark colored tank top and his usual pants. His mask is down. He's smoking a cigarette. It's dark, just the moonlight is illuminating him, his skin, hair, the very highlights of his face. She tries to put these two people together, the unmasked stranger and the masked man. He's complicated, tiring.

You fell asleep, he tells her when he notices she's staring at him. She apologizes, he shakes his head and shrugs. It's fine, he says.

Are you angry?

No.

I didn't know you smoked.

How would you?

I don't know, I've just never seen you do it, that's all.

He shrugs again, tells her it's not a common habit. Just an occasional thing. I'm not angry, he reiterates. He looks at her, smiles in a way she can only recognize from his eyes. It's not his usual smile, the one that is almost always deceitful in its sincerity, but this one is gentle, warm. Like it was earlier, she remembers.

Bunching the thread bare comforter around her, she walks over to him through the dark room, to the moonlit man sitting in the window sill.

You should leave, he tells her as moves towards him. It's getting late. She pauses for a second, and continues. She stops when she is in front of him. He's fully visible to her now. She apologizes. About earlier, her reaction. He doesn't say anything.

He pulls her bulky wrapped form against him. They both look out the window looking at nothing. It's alright, he says after a long time. His voice is like it has always been she realizes, soothing and familiar. It is always there, the same. Just like him.

And that's when it hits her.

Reality isn't as great as it seems, is it? He asks her.

Just confusing sometimes, I suppose.

Indeed.

So are we officially stupid now?

I suppose so.

I think it's worth it.

Of course she does. Her optimism and naiveté is more endearing than he'll ever admit. He holds her close. Rests his unshaven face against her belly. He notices something strange. Strange to him at least. He doesn't want her to leave. He should, this is nothing more than what it always is or would be with anyone else, just it was with _her_ and that gives him all the more reason to want to run away from the mistake, but it's _there_. This unsettling urge to keep her, to keep her close. His guilt almost overwhelms him about what he has done, what they have done, but yet it's still there. She's still there.

Why, he doesn't know. Perhaps it's because he's lonely. Perhaps she's familiar and giving him a false sense of security. Or perhaps it's because they're there looking out the window together and neither one can find the will to let go of the other. Why doesn't matter perhaps.

He pulls her face to his. He kisses her, for the first time that night. She smiles at him and along with it comes some divine intervention that melts his doubt and he falls victim to an unwanted but welcomed need for a young girl with pink hair.

So do I, he whispers.


End file.
